


like the tide

by imaginejolls



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Episode: s01e04 Of Banquets Bastards and Burials, Hair Washing, Hand Jobs, M/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy, non-romantic sexual relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:08:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22070806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imaginejolls/pseuds/imaginejolls
Summary: Jaskier washes Geralt's hair. Geralt has a strange way of saying "thank you."
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 20
Kudos: 723





	like the tide

**Author's Note:**

> i never write m/m anymore, and yet... 
> 
> please note i only watched the show

“And yet, here we are.” 

Jaskier crouches by the tub, holding Geralt’s gaze. There’s a brief silence. 

“Hm,” says Geralt then. It would probably kill him to spare more than five words at a time. Another pause. He lifts his arms to scratch uselessly at his scalp. 

Jaskier cannot bear to watch that. “Right, no, that won’t do. Let me…” 

Jaskier shoots up to full height. He grabs a soap and an oil that smells pretty, and walks over to stand behind Geralt. He lathers the soap in his hands. The oil goes straight onto the dried selkiemore guts in his hair in hopes that it will make them easier to remove. It works, kind of. Geralt doesn’t complain, at least. 

The process of washing Geralt’s hair is tedious, strangely intimate, but ultimately soothing. Jaskier works his way through it in what he hopes is a sensible pattern. He hums into the silence. When Geralt’s hair is as clean as it will ever be, Jaskier dunks Geralt into the water. He is just a smidge delighted by the annoyed grunt Geralt lets out when he emerges. Jaskier washes his hands in a nearby bucket of water that’s gone cold already. He has half a mind to douse Geralt with it. But that would only get him instantly murdered, so better not. He has pushed his luck enough for one day. Royal ball and all.

Jaskier passes the tub on his way over to return the soap and the oil back to where he’s found them when a large hand wraps itself loosely around his wrist, stopping him in his tracks. He turns to Geralt, a question already on his lips. But it never finds its way out of his mouth. Jaskier watches with wide eyes as Geralt lifts his hand up to his mouth and presses his lips to Jaskier’s knuckles.

“I guess that’s one way to say thank you?” Jaskier says and uncertainty drips from every word. He feels as though he has lost his footing on a steep hill and is now tumbling hopelessly downwards. What’s happening?

“Thank you,” Geralt grunts.

He tugs on Jaskier's arm. Jaskier, not thinking, sinks to his knees. The fabric of his pants gets wet as he kneels by the bathtub, which doesn’t make for the most pleasant sensation. But there's a hand cradling his nape and surprisingly soft lips on his own, and Jaskier won't look a gift witcher in the mouth. Instead, he slips his tongue in, teases and retreats again, waiting for Geralt to retaliate. The water sloshes around the tub as Geralt moves to get a better angle. 

Jaskier’s clothes are done for by the time Geralt gets his way with him, his shirt clings to his skin and his pants are wet and uncomfortably tight all of a sudden. Jaskier opens his eyes to look at Geralt and the face he sees knocks the remaining air out of his lungs. Geralt’s pupils are blown, his lips deep in colour and so very tempting... Jaskier moves to kiss him again. 

Too many things happen at once. Without a warning, Geralt stands up, the water rushing down his body, and Jaskier doesn’t get to properly take in the view because he’s being pulled to his feet as well. His eyes catch on Geralt’s cock though, and that… is a sight to behold. Even not to full hardness it is impressive. Jaskier never guessed he’d be thinking this, but he needs to get his hands on Geralt’s cock. _Now_. Jaskier stumbles, the soap and oil long forgotten somewhere by his feet. He lets himself be guided until his back hits the vanity, and the entirety of Geralt presses against his front. Jaskier sucks in a shuddering breath.

“Tell me to stop,” Geralt says and his eye look primal, wild, “and I’ll stop.” 

“Don’t,” Jaskier pants out. “Don’t stop.” 

Their mouths crash together again. It’s sloppy, uncontrolled; not what one would expect from such a poised being as a witcher. The push and pull of it is like the waves on a sea, building and building and building until suddenly, they crash onto the rocky shores. 

A needy sound makes its way out of Jaskier’s mouth. He lifts his hands to strip himself of his damned clothes, only to meet Geralt’s hands already trying. It’s distracting. But somehow, they manage to rid Jaskier of the sodden shirt, and Geralt bows his head down to mouth on his neck, his chest… Jaskier’s hand finds its way into Geralt’s damp tresses. He dares not to pull on it too harshly, simply anchores himself in Geralt’s hair, holding him, guiding him.

Geralt kneels down in front of him. The sight of him on his knees makes Jaskier’s dick twitch. Jaskier forces himself to breathe as he watches Geralt untie his trousers, calm and collected, and then tug them down Jaskier’s legs with far more force than necessary. Jaskier kicks them off ungracefully. Geralt leans in and his warm breath skitters across Jaskier’s desperately hard length. Jaskier’s muscles tense as he braces himself. But Geralt takes his time, puts his lips on Jaskier’s balls, tight with anticipation, then moves on to press an open-mouthed kiss to the underside of his cock and finally licks up the length of him without a hurry. Jaskier chokes on air. It’s not often that he is speechless. Geralt takes him in his mouth, and Jaskier makes a sound similar to one of a wounded animal. Geralt… is surprisingly good at this. Surprisingly because Jaskier didn’t think he did this often - or at all. Alas, Geralt works his cock with passion and precision. He licks and sucks on him, takes him as deep as he can, and Jaskier curls up on himself as if he’s been punched in the gut. His legs begin to tremble. 

A gentle hand on Geralt’s cheek makes him look up at Jaskier. Geralt’s eyes look like the solar eclipse; two pitch black pools surrounded by a ring of gold.

“Fuck, Geralt,” Jaskier cries out. “Not yet…” 

Geralt’s mouth slides off his dick. There’s a whine, then hands on Geralt’s shoulders, shaking and searching for purchase as Jaskier attempts to will Geralt up to his feet again. Jaskier pulls him as close as possible and groans into his mouth when their cocks brush against one another. Geralt can’t stop the roll of his hips. And Jaskier doesn’t seem to want him to, judging by the way his nails claw into the skin of his ass, urging him on. 

The vanity behind Jaskier creaks pitifully. He half expects it to break down under the force of Geralt’s frantic thrusts, but to his suprise it remains standing as the two of them rut against each other, groaning and cursing under their breaths and into each other’s mouths. Jaskier won’t last long. The coil that sits somewhere in the pit of his stomach is curled so tight that he knows it is on the verge of breaking. He wraps his fingers around Geralt’s dick. Heavens, he should be savouring every single second of this, but the primitive urge within him makes it impossible. He pumps his fist swiftly on Geralt’s length, mostly in time with his thrusts, though coordination is difficult at this point. 

Jaskier finishes first. He does so with a barely stifled cry, and his knees almost give out. Geralt holds him up even as his hips snap with almost inhuman speed against Jaskier’s pelvis, fucking into his hand that is still tightly curled around his cock. Geralt’s orgasm is quieter, but no less intense. He hides his face in the crook of Jaskier’s neck, his breath tickles the sensitive skin there, and paints Jaskier’s stomach with thick white streaks of cum. For a moment, they stay unmoving, half-embraced, and the only sound passing between them is the air in their lungs. 

Geralt moves away. Jaskier is suddenly aware of the cold creeping around the room. He shivers. Geralt walks back to the tub, fetches a cloth and the bucket of water, and carries both to Jaskier. 

“Well,” Jaskier says and immediately receives a death glare.

“Don’t even start,” Geralt growls, wiping himself clean of Jaskier’s cum. He then hands the rinsed out cloth to Jaskier. 

Jaskier knows better than to poke a sated witcher, so he keeps his mouth shut. For now, at least.

“Just so we’re clear, we still aren’t friends?” he asks as he puts on dry, clean clothes fit for the occasion.

“Definitely not,” Geralt grunts. It comes out muffled because he’s in the middle of dragging a shirt over his head. 

“Right. Need I remind you my cock was in your mouth?”

If looks could kill, Jaskier would be dead right now. “Fuck off, bard.”

“That’s what I thought you’d say.”


End file.
